


against the dying of the light

by WingedQuill



Series: Juniper Verse [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blind Character, Blindness, Captivity, Disabled Character, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Starvation, Torture, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, blind geralt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:29:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25103962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedQuill/pseuds/WingedQuill
Summary: When Geralt is captured by Nilfgaard and tortured for the whereabouts of his daughter, he tries to escape. Of course he does. It's in his nature.Nilfgaard comes up with a clever solution to stop him from running again. A caustic potion poured over his eyes.Time goes a bit funny after that.(Written for Geralt Whump Week, Day 5: Loneliness)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Juniper Verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655494
Comments: 13
Kudos: 201





	against the dying of the light

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Geralt is blinded very suddenly and violently. There is a lot of subsequent panic and internalized ableism about said blindness, and he's going to be very negative about it for quite a while (this chapter especially). This chapter in particular has a lot of panicked, disjointed writing/thinking so please proceed with caution.
> 
> Also! Chapter one of this was written for Geralt Whump Week, but this is set in the Juniper Verse. In case you haven't read that and don't feel like investing time in a long multichapter, all you need to know for this fic is that Geralt was kidnapped by Nilfgaard to protect Ciri, and that Jaskier is actually a witcher named Juniper. Chapters two and three (detailing Geralt's recovery and his and Juniper's budding relationship) will go up at some point soon-ish, but it's not really a priority for me right now, fic-wise, so don't be surprised if it takes a while.

Geralt tries to escape. Of course he does. He wasn’t made to sit quietly in a cage and let the Nilfgaardians hurt him. So as soon as he has the slightest sliver of an opportunity, he picks the locks on his chains, kills his guard with his bare hands, and sprints for the exit.

He should have waited, he thinks, when he throws open the door to the sounds of shouting and stampeding footsteps. He should have waited, he thinks, when Fringilla waves her hand and his legs lose all their strength. He should have waited, he thinks, when they drag him back to his cell and throw him on the bloodstained table. They don’t even bother to chain him down—Fringilla’s magic has left him completely motionless. Completely helpless.

He should have _fucking_ waited.

Fringilla stalks into the room, spitting fury as her subordinates. Her magic presses down around him, heavy and oppressive. If she gets any angrier, he fears she’ll crack a rib. She stands over Geralt, grabbing his chin in her hand. Her magic is the only thing that stops him from flinching back, and shame curls in his gut, shame that he’s been reduced to beaten-animal reflex in so short a time.

“I have half a mind to keep you like this,” she snarls. “Paralyzed. On this table. Capable of nothing but hurting.”

One of her lackeys steps forward and hands her a clear jug filled with bright red liquid. Geralt expects her to force it down his throat. Expects it to be like the green potion that he’s been made to drink so many times, setting his nerves on fire without leaving a single mark on his body. Pain without the need for a healer. Convenient for his captors.

“But that would take a toll on me,” she continues, swirling the liquid around the glass. “And Nilfgaard needs me at my strongest. So this is my solution to stop you from running again, witcher. Do let me know what you think.”

She tilts her wrist and pours the red potion directly into Geralt’s eyes.

It _burns._

He wants to scream, wants to thrash, wants to claw at his face and get it _off,_ but he just lies limply on the table and stares up at the ceiling, at the face of his tormentor. And the room is cold, and gray, and dark, and getting darker.

The world is burning away from the edges of his vision and no, no, no this can’t be happening to him, this can’t—

This can’t be the last thing he sees.

But it is.

Blackness overtakes everything and he hopes, stupidly, childishly, that he’s just fallen unconscious, except his eyes are _still_ _on fire,_ shit, fuck, this isn’t real, he has to be dreaming _._ He hears Fringilla bark an order, feels rough hands grab at his limbs and lift. He’s dumped unceremoniously back on the ground and cold metal clicks shut around his wrists, ankles, neck.

He has motion again. A scream explodes out of his throat, animalistic, wounded, grieving a loss that he never thought he’d have to endure. He curls over himself, bringing his shackled hands up to rub frantically at his eyes. But it’s far too late. The damage is done. He’s—

He’s—

“We should have done this earlier,” he hears Fringilla say. Is she out of the room? How many people are here with him, how many people could hurt him? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know because he _can’t fucking see._ “I think this might be the thing that breaks him.”

Footsteps. Leaving him alone? Is he alone, or are they watching him sob, watching him wail like a child? He knows that his cell is small, but it feels very big, all of a sudden. The world is vast in its emptiness, and he thinks he might be the only person left in it. Stumbling through the void alone.

He wraps his arms around his knees and squeezes his eyes shut. As long as they’re closed, he can pretend that the blackness around him is there by his own choice.

***

For the first night, he tricks himself into thinking it might be temporary. He keeps his eyes closed for long stretches of time and tells himself that, when he opens them, he’ll be able to see again. Perhaps it will be blurry, perhaps it will be faded or colorless, but it’ll be more than endless nothing.

But he opens his eyes again. And again. And again. And every time, it’s nothing but darkness.

His own breaths are loud, loud, loud as thunder in his ears, and his heart is beating faster than it’s ever gone. Sweat covers him from head to toe and he’s shaking like an earthquake, like a small animal terrified of a thunderstorm. Is he dying? It feels like he might be dying.

He’s dying and falling and whirling away into the nothingness of the world.

No. It’s not nothingness. There is cold stone beneath his legs. A collar around his neck, chains on his limbs. Pain licking through his nerves, the aftershocks of the potion they’ve been forcing down his throat every day.

He’s here. He’s in this cell. He’s a prisoner of Nilfgaard and they’ve—

He’s not alone. That’s the point. The world hasn’t fallen away. There are still other people, lurking beyond the small cell filled with his desperate gaps. And he needs to remember that because those other people could hurt him even worse than he’s already been hurt. They _w_ _ant_ to hurt him worse, want to make him suffer.

He wonders if they’ll come back to give him the potion again, or if they’ll be content with watching him drift through the darkness, watching him cry (because he’s still crying, he _can’t stop crying,_ it’s been hours now, and the tears still rush from him like a river) and whimper and claw at his eyes like that might lift the darkness away.

_Maybe they’ll take your hearing._

He curls up even tighter.

_Maybe they’ll take your tongue. Or your hands._

Tighter.

_Maybe they’ll break your spine and leave you motionless and nerveless._

A sob bursts from his chest and the breaths rush from him, in and out like a runaway horse.

_Maybe—_

_Maybe—_

_Maybe they weren’t content with—_

His mind can dwell on a thousand different scenarios of what his torturers might do next, but it refuses to acknowledge what they’ve already done. It skates around the word, dances away from it.

_They weren’t—_

_They want to do more than—_

The breaths rush and rush, snatching control of his lungs away from him. He slumps down, shifting from a seated position to a lying one, his arms curled around his torso like that will do anything to protect him, his side pressing against the ground, his back against the wall. _Anchor, anchor, anchor._

_You’re on the world, you’re on the world, you’re here, you’re here, you’re just—_

He uncurls his hand from his chest and presses his trembling fingers against the floor. Traces the cracks and dirt and tacky splotches he thinks are blood.

_You’re **here.**_

***

He sleeps, eventually. He doesn’t have much energy to begin with, these days, and his lungs running away from him sapped whatever was left.

When he opens his eyes, he thinks he might be dreaming at first. There is no other reason to wake to total darkness, not when his tormentors have been leaving torches burning constantly in his cell to fuck with his sleep. He’s used to opening his eyes to flames and gray stone, used to opening his eyes and seeing the fucking table that they like to strap him to.

So. There’s no reason for this break in routine, unless he’s dreaming.

For a split second, he’s confused.

And then he remembers.

***

He cries the entire day. He thinks. Time is hard to mark when you’re—

***

Eventually he hears his cell door slamming open. He jumps at the suddenness of it, slamming his head against the wall. There’s laughter, cold and cruel, slipping into his void and crushing him from all sides. He doesn’t know who it belongs to, which guard has decided to visit him.

He almost asks.

He clenches his jaw shut. He won’t speak to them, not a single word. He promised himself that a long time ago, promised _Ciri_ that a long time ago, and it’s not a promise he intends to break.

“Breakfast, puppy,” the man says. “Though I can see you didn’t want your dinner last night. Are we feeding you too much?”

Geralt doesn’t answer. Breakfast? But it was the evening wasn’t it? He’s been awake all day, he’s been crying for hours.

_Time passes funny when you’re—_

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the man laughs. Geralt hears a clatter as he sets the plate down. “I’ll pass along your message to Fringilla.”

Less food. When he can already feel his clothes hanging looser on his frame, when his hair has started to fall out, when his stomach is constantly screaming in pain.

He doesn’t answer.

“Eat up,” the man says, and the door slams shut again.

***

He needs to leave the corner.

***

He needs to leave the corner if he wants to eat now.

***

He needs to leave the corner if he doesn’t want them to cut his rations again.

***

He moves on his hands and knees, shivering the whole time. As soon as he gets a few feet— _is it a few feet, is it more, is it less, is it?—_ away from the wall, his lungs run away from him again. He collapses in the middle of the floor, focusing all his energy on forcing his breathing steady.

_In and out and in and out and in._

They must be laughing at him, the famous White Wolf reduced to hysterics at the mere act of crawling across a floor.

Is this going to be the rest of his life?

No. It can’t be. It’ll wear off, or Fringilla will get bored and remove it, or he’ll get out of here and find a mage who can fix him.

He’s not—

He’s just _not._

***

He finds the food eventually. He thinks it takes him an hour. Maybe two.

Maybe more.

He eats, the raw meat already growing rancid, and steadies himself to return to his corner.

***

Time passes.

***

Time passes.

***

_Time is funny when—_

_When—_

He still can’t think the word.

***

His mind keeps circling around Ciri. Wondering where she is. Who she’s with. If she’s okay— _gods please, please let her be okay. You can leave me in the darkness, but **please** let her be okay._

He remembers her as she was in the clearing, terrified, tears pooling in her eyes, refusing to leave him. Leaving him anyway.

It isn’t her fault. It isn’t. It _isn’t._ This was his choice. His and his alone. He can’t blame his child for this, he just—he can’t. If he does, he’s the kind of monster that deserves to be struck down by silver.

But he thinks of the flash of her hair as she ran, her cloak furling out behind her. And he wonders, drifting in the darkness, if that was his last sight of her.

It _wasn’t_ he tells himself, as the days go on and on and on, and the darkness refuses to lighten. It can’t have been.

***

Other potential lasts:

Roach, eyes rolling madly in her head as she was dragged away by soldiers.

Yennefer, back to him, chest heaving as she realized what he had taken from her.

Jaskier, face twisted up in pain, trying desperately not to cry as Geralt dashed his heart on the ground.

They’re all shit.

They can’t be true lasts.

***

Time passes.

And passes.

***

Eventually, Fringilla does start giving him that potion again, the one that sets every nerve alight and makes him scream until his throat gives out.

He’s almost grateful for it, at first. It’s a distraction from the nothing, nothing, _nothing._

***

He stops being grateful after—

After a while. Not sure how long.

***

Time passes.

And then.

***

Jaskier’s voice. Jaskier’s _hands,_ pressing against his face, smoothing back his hair, tracing the skin around his eyes. Geralt leans into the touch, breathes in his scent, chases the melody of his voice. It might be a dream. A hallucination brought on by too much pain and too much nothingness. But he’ll drink it in while it’s here, savor it like a fine wine, a gracious lover, a peaceful day.

“We’re getting you out,” Jaskier whispers, and—

Ciri is here, sobbing in his arms, a frantic litany of apologies that tug at his heart until he thinks it might snap clean in two. He holds her close, as tightly as he can with his sapped strength, and whispers reassurances in her hair. That it’s not her fault. That he’s proud of her.

(Though he’s terrified, that she’s here, because what the _fuck_ was Jaskier thinking, bringing his child into this hell?)

And Yen is here too, tugging him to his feet, snarking at Jaskier like this is just another monster hunt. His _family,_ here, around him, and they’re pulling him out of the cell, pressing him on step by step by agonizing step.

He wonders, briefly, if he might have died.

And then Fringilla appears, and Ciri steps forward, and he dismisses that thought entirely as his daughter turns his torturer into a tree.

Not even death would be this strange.

***

They drag him out of the shaking, _screaming_ castle.

He struggles, weakly, pointlessly, because there’s one member of his family missing, and he can’t leave her, he can’t _lose_ her, not after everything.

“It’s just a stupid horse,” Yennefer mutters, but Jaskier knows better.

***

He falls against her and breathes her in.

Life. Warmth.

His first and best anchor.

_You’re on the world. You’re here. You’re not flying away._

“Sorry Roach,” he says against her neck. “Sorry. Bet you want to get back on the road again, huh?”

She nickers softly, he breath whooshing slowly and steadily over his back.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Me too.”

_You’ll never be able to ride her again, and you know it. Not properly._

He closes his eyes. It doesn’t make a difference.

_This is the first of a thousand griefs._

***

_But maybe not. Maybe—_

Maybe Yennefer can fix this.

_Maybe you don’t have to be—_

***

He doesn’t feel like he’s here with them, as they pile into Yennefer’s safe house, moving too quickly for him to track. They flutter around him like anxious birds, pressing hands against his skin, and he knows he should feel like he’s part of the world. He knows that they are trying to ground him. But he doesn’t—

He can’t—

He wants to see Jaskier’s smile, he wants to see Ciri’s excitable bounce as she reaches up to grab his hand, he wants to see Yennefer’s steady violet eyes. He wants the reminder that they’re _here,_ and he’s here, and he wants the world to be concrete and steady and solid around him.

Yennefer needs to see what Fringilla has done to him. Needs to see if it can be fixed. She puts her hands on his face.

“This won’t hurt,” she promises.

He flinches anyway, from a knowledge that might hurt more than any blow.

 _Please,_ he says to all the gods in the sky. _Please please please **please don’t let me be—**_

The hands fall away from his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Yennefer says.

***

Time shatters.

***

_Nononononononononono_

***

“Yennefer. Can you take Ciri out of here?”

***

_Nononononononononono **nonoNONONONO—**_

***

Jaskier’s arms are around him, Jaskier’s voice is around him, echoing and soothing and Geralt can’t even hear what he’s saying.

***

His lungs are running away and he’s crying and crying and he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop, it’s _all his eyes are fucking **good for anymore AND HE CAN’T—**_

***

“Breathe,” Jaskier says, and he doesn’t know how to do that. “Please breathe, sweetheart, _please—”_

***

Time is shattered, time is shattered, time doesn’t mean anything anymore, it could be noon or midnight, and he wouldn’t know because he’s—

***

“No,” he wails. “No, no, no, no, _no._ I can’t do this, Jaskier, I can’t, I can’t, _I can’t—”_

Jaskier is shaking beneath him and he thinks Jaskier might be crying too, but he can’t tell, he can’t, because he’s—

***

“I’m blind,” he sobs. His mind can’t slip around the word anymore. It can’t escape it. It’s made a home in his brain, and he doesn’t think it’ll ever leave. Doesn’t think it’ll ever stop echoing, around and around and around.

“I’m blind, I’m blind, I’m _blind,_ Jaskier, I—”

“I know,” Jaskier says. His breath stutters against Geralt’s cheek. He rocks back and forth like Geralt is a newborn babe, like simple motion is the answer to his tears. But it isn’t. Because nothing will ever fix this.

Nothing will ever bring him back to the world.


End file.
